


Soaked To The Skin

by GriffinGreen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I swear there's a happy ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Sex Work, Torture, Whump, jaskier is Not Coping Well, post episode s01 e06, some named original characters, there will also eventually be a relationship, there will eventually be comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23476099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GriffinGreen/pseuds/GriffinGreen
Summary: “I don't consider myself a pessimist at all. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel completely soaked to the skin,” Leonard Cohen, Daily Telegraph, 1993---Geralt will come back. Jaskier has no doubts about that. He's hurt, yes, and he's angry, and he's damn well going to wring an apology out of his stubborn Witcher this time... but he never once doubts, not even for a moment, that he'll be back. Geralt cares about him, whether he'll admit it or not, and even if it takes time and heartache and a little grovelling, eventually they'll work things out and things will be good again. He knows it, as sure as he knows the sun will rise the next morning.Until he learns of Geralt's death, and his world comes crashing down around him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here, have some pain. You're welcome.

Jaskier knows three things with absolute certainty:

  * He is helplessly, hopelessly in love with Geralt of Rivia;
  * Geralt of Rivia is a dumbass who doesn’t know what he wants and is determined to get in the way of his own happiness; and
  * Despite all of that, Geralt loves him too.



***

It hurts, of course. The first few days, especially – gods, does it hurt, and yes, he indulges in weeping and feeling sorry for himself, and then indulges in righteous anger at his Witcher for taking his frustrations out on him, _again_. It’s not fair, and he knows it isn’t fair, and he resolves that, Melitele be his witness, he is going to get an actual apology, in _words_ this time, out of Geralt when he comes back.

Because he will, of course. Jaskier has no doubts about that. Geralt will never admit it, but he’s sought Jaskier out as often, over the years, as Jaskier has sought out him. It might take him some time – they live very different lives, after all, and Geralt has his own responsibilities – but one day he’ll look up and there he’ll be, falling into step beside him like a cat trying to pretend it was never gone, as if there were never any harsh words that need unsaying.

Well. He’s not going to let him get away with it this time. Jaskier amuses himself by imagining how he’ll greet Geralt when they meet again – the cold shoulder, the feigned anger. He makes bets on how long Geralt will silently brood before he finally gives in and admits that he was wrong, that he’s sorry.

But. Until then, there’s nothing to do but wait, is there? And nothing to do while he waits than to get on with his own life. He did get the rest of the story from the dwarves, after all, and as predicted it’s made a hell of a song. He travels and performs, and listens to the news from far-off places. The fall of Cintra – there’s a genuine pang at that, both for Geralt and for Princess Cirilla, and he mentally gives the Witcher a preemptive measure of forgiveness: it’ll be a while, then, before they run into each other. Geralt will find his Child Surprise and spirit her off somewhere safe and hidden, and Jaskier is fervently grateful for it even if it means the fantasied confrontation will have to be put off indefinitely. He even writes a song loosely based on it, the details muddied and embellished enough to not put them into any additional danger but the pathos kept intact.

And he listens, and he sings, and he keeps far, far away from the war, and he waits with a heart sure and unburdened, confident that this storm will one day pass and all will be well again.

Until he learns of Geralt of Rivia’s death, and his world comes crashing down around him.

***

The last strains of “Golden Treasure” died away in the crowded tavern and the cup began to be passed around. Jaskier allowed himself a moment of smugness over managing to segue the chorus smoothly into a request for the audience to part with their own “golden treasure” as payment for the bard who brought them such a stirring tale of dragons and secrets. Flushed with laughter, gratified by the _clink_ of coins in the cup, he took a sip of ale and grinned. “Any requests? Come on, don’t be shy. What would you like to hear next?”

Song titles were shouted out – standards like “Toss A Coin,” of course, but others too, both his own creations and old favorites that might as well have sprung from the hills themselves. From the back a voice cried out, “The new one!”, and others echoed it. Jaskier smiled and strummed his lute, falling into the opening chords of the song he privately dedicated to the Lion Cub.

But heads shook. “No, no,” the same voice protested. “Not that one. The _new_ one! Sing us ‘The Fall of the White Wolf!’”

He broke a string.

Well. That was embarrassing. Forcing a smile, he turned to his pack to dig out a new one; it bought him time to rack his brain, trying to think of what new song of his could have been misheard in this way. “Ah,” he said at last, fiddling with his lute. “Is it ‘Wolf’s Howl’ you mean? An excellent choice, and I commend your good taste, sir. Let me just… tighten this here, and I’ll…”

Again, frowns and the shaking of heads met his words. “That’s a good one,” the bartender agreed, leaning over the bar and speaking slowly as if Jaskier were a child. “But they want the _new_ one. You know. The one about how Geralt died?”

A wave of cold washed over him, but his smile didn’t falter. “I am extremely flattered.” He laughed, and wondered distantly if it sounded as strange to them as it did to him. “It’s quite a compliment, to think I can sing you a song that’s not yet written, about something that hasn’t actually happened.”

The buzz in the tavern grew. Disbelief at first – the consensus was that Jaskier _must_ have written it. He was, after all, the White Wolf’s bard. Only after repeated protests (he could hear his own voice arguing, could hear his words, but wasn’t conscious of choosing them – he floated in the cold, listening to himself ask for explanations) did a merchant’s son come shyly to the center of the room and, in a voice that wavered but was otherwise decent, sang the song for him.

Jaskier had embellished and exaggerated too many tales of his own to take the song at face value. He was fairly certain, for example, that Yennefer had not turned Ciri into a literal lion cub before spiriting her away, nor that Geralt’s sword had shone with a silver flame that felled all who saw it. But the core of the story, the truth under the decoration, was simple enough.

The soldiers of Nilfgaard had found them. Yen had gotten Ciri to safety. Geralt had died protecting them.

Barely aware of the protests, Jaskier turned and headed to his room, closing the door behind him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier tries and fails to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV change, to an original character who will not return past this chapter. I tried to write this scene from Jaskier's POV and it simply didn't work.

“I wasn’t supposed to outlive him.”

The bard’s voice was flat, the faint hint of despair communicating deeper grief than if he’d been sobbing. “He’s a Witcher, after all. They’re _immortal_ – or, well, close enough.” He waved a hand, the gesture dramatic despite him being flat on his back in bed. “I was supposed to – to write songs about him that would be sung long after my death and remind him of me decades after I was gone. It was going to be very tragic and romantic. But it was always going to be _him_ remembering _me_ , you see, because he’s a Witcher and I’m a human and – it wasn’t supposed to be like this! _I wasn’t supposed to outlive him!_ ”

Zuzanna sighed inwardly, never letting the gentle expression leave her face, and tried not to feel frustrated; after all, this was the easiest money she’d ever made. Still, there was such a thing as professional pride. “It doesn’t sound fair,” she soothed.

“Well, it’s not.” He rolled up to face her, baby blue eyes raw and hurt. “We never even – he was supposed to _apologize_! I wasn’t even done being angry at him yet! There were things he was supposed to say to me, and things I needed to say to him, and it’s just… it’s never going to happen, now.”

She nodded, frowning sympathetically. After all, if he wanted to pay good coin for a night’s company only to use her as a sounding board for his pain, who was she to argue? “It hurts,” she said softly. “All the things you won’t get to say or do.”

He nodded, his eyes faraway. “But not just me.” He shook his head; a note of tragedy crept into his voice, a storyteller crafting his tale for maximum pathos, and she wondered idly if he even realized he was doing it or if it was merely instinct at this point. “ _His_ life wasn’t supposed to end like this. He was a great man. He was supposed to do great things. He was touched by destiny, whether he liked it or not, and he was meant to… to play a role, you see, in the great sweeping changes that are happening now, to shape them, to… to _matter_. He was never supposed to be a footnote. The protector who came into Princess Ciri’s life just long enough to die for her.” His voice was hollow; so were his eyes. He sounded broken.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care. Of course she did. People said this job would make you hard if you did it long enough, but she’d been in this life for years and her compassion hadn’t left her yet. It hurt, hurt like fire, to lose someone you love as much as this man clearly loved that Witcher. It hurt when the good died before their time

But it… it _happened_ , was the thing. People died every day, even those who shouldn’t, and only a bard would be foolish enough to think it ought to be in a way that made sense. As if life were a story or a song. Only a bard would be so naïve as to believe little things like grief or unfairness ought to be enough to stay the universe’s merciless hand.

 _He’s young_ , she thought, and knew she was right despite the subtle cues that hinted he was at least ten years her senior. He didn’t yet have a well of tears behind his eyes ready to enfold and absorb and soften new sorrows. In all the ways that mattered he was young, and in that moment pity prevailed where sympathy had failed. The first heartbreak was always the worst, no matter when in your life it happened.

“I know,” she murmured, and wrapped an arm warmly around him. “I’m so sorry. It’s not fair, and I’m so sorry.” She met his gaze, her eyes wide and kind; then, slowly, she leaned in to press her lips to his forehead. “You’re here, though.” She pushed comfort into her voice, willing it to be a balm. “It hurts, and it’s going to hurt. You have reason to hurt. But you’re here, and you’re alive.” Reaching up, she pushed hair gently away from his face, then let her fingers drift down his side, the gesture soothing – not erotic, but sensual. “Maybe, just for tonight… it’s okay to hide from it for a little while.” She continued to stroke him, her hand traveling over shoulder and waist and hip and back again. “We can just be here, in this room, and let the world outside do without us for the night, hmm? Let me make you feel better, even if it’s just for a little while.”

She could feel it, how his whole body responded to the idea, _wanting_ what she offered. Eyes wide and shining, he reached for her, eager to set his pain aside and lose himself in a night of pleasure. He drew her close and pressed his body against hers, hard and hot…

…and then his face crumpled, and he curled in on himself as if in agony, burying his face in her shoulder.

As the hot tears began to fall and the first silent sob racked his body, she sighed and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has a Good Idea. (Spoiler: it is not a good idea.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN for alcohol abuse, grief, depression, and shitty coping mechanisms

He was no longer sure what day it was.

He was hungover, and he’d been hungover for some time now, but that didn’t bother him because he was also drunk, which made the headache and the nausea and all the other assorted goodies easier to ignore. It made the other people in the tavern easier to ignore too, and that was a good thing, because he had the vague idea that they weren’t very fond of him anymore. He didn’t play music, for one thing – or, well, he did, but only the same few songs over and over again, with a soggy warbling voice and a lute badly in need of tuning, and without any sort of awareness of whether or not anyone particularly wanted to hear music at that moment or indeed if anyone else was, perhaps, trying to perform something else.

Also, he stank.

In his defense, he’d ordered a bath three days ago (or was it four? …or maybe six?), but when he’d started to get in he’d suddenly remembered all the times he’d washed blood out of Geralt’s hair, and that had caused him to plop down onto the floor and stare at the side of the tub for a while. When he’d come back to himself he’d tried adding his favorite bath salts to entice himself into the water, but then the scent of them had hit him and that had induced another round of silent staring, the memories playing before his eyes. By the time that was over with the water was cold, and anyway he’d stopped caring about whether or not he was clean, so he’d just gone to bed instead.

He hadn’t tried again.

The local working girls had collectively reached the conclusion that he was a fragile thing, which, fair enough, he was. He couldn’t seduce anyone right now if his life had depended on it, but he’d had enough coin to seek comfort in their arms on more than one occasion. They were very… gentle. Understanding, even. It was a little embarrassing. Or, well, it would have been, if he were capable of being embarrassed anymore, which he wasn’t sure he was. That was okay. He was sure he’d have plenty of time to feel embarrassed later, and his brain would make sure he didn’t miss out on a drop of it.

Later. That was the thing, wasn’t it. Because – impossible as it was to imagine now – there would, eventually, be a _later_ , wouldn’t there. There would be a time when the hurt faded. When the memory faded. When he could smile, and remember the happier times, and move on, and make a life for himself without Geralt.

Gods above, he didn’t want it.

And so he drank. Not, as some might assume, to hide from the pain – to wallow in it. To bathe in it, immerse himself in it. To use the alcohol to knock down any walls his mind might try to put up in self-defense, any attempt to protect himself from the worst of it. Because without it, without the alcohol, he knew – he would start to heal. He would get better, and getting better would mean letting Geralt go, because that would be the good and healthy thing to do, and so he _did not want to get better_.

So he drank, to keep the wound open and bleeding.

And one night, dirty and stinking and drunk on booze and tears and songs that weren’t sad before but were now, he had an absolutely wonderful idea for something he could do that would make the pain even _more_ fresh, _even_ more real, and so before he could change his mind he bought the biggest bottle of the strongest rotgut the tavern had on offer and, to the collective relief of everyone in the town, took his leave, sipping from the bottle as he stumbled down the road.

***

_Pain_.

It lanced into his brain through closed eyes. Bewildered, betrayed, he opened his eyes to see what was so determined to hurt him, and it increased a hundredfold, the sun searing his retinas with a heat almost – but tragically not quite – hot enough to cauterize its path.

He cried out in pain, and the noise hurt his head, and making it hurt his throat. His body jerked in reaction to the pain, tried to roll over to get away from the light, and that caused his stomach to cramp and then to violently eject everything inside it, and that hurt too.

Some time later, the dry heaves stopped. By the smell, he’d thrown up whiskey first, then stomach acid, then nothing at all but not for lack of trying. There were other smells on him too, ones he didn’t care to think too hard about. Everything hurt. Parts of him that he didn’t think _could_ hurt, hurt.

He lay there in a puddle of his own stink, hurting and miserable, for some period of time longer than ten minutes and less than a week. Finally, with a heroic effort, he rolled himself up to his knees. He’d heard something – yes – water, running water, somewhere in _that_ direction, and close by – close enough that he could crawl towards it without opening his eyes too wide or jostling his head or stomach too much.

He’d meant to do nothing more than take a few careful sips and possibly wash his face, but – possibly because in his weakness he’d lost his footing, or possibly because his subconscious mind knew he needed it, or possibly just because that callous bitch Destiny decided he needed a wake-up call and decided to push him – he ended up falling face-first into the stream instead. It was deep, deep enough for his whole body to plunge beneath the surface, and icy cold. It didn’t do a damn thing for his headache or his nausea or the aches that suffused his entire body, but by the time his head broke the surface again he was thoroughly, mercilessly awake in a way he hadn’t been for – days? Weeks? He gasped for air, shivering, instinctively treading water as memories began flooding back in.

Geralt was dead. He remembered that one. Yen and Ciri were alive – he remembered that too. He hadn’t bathed in over a week. Hadn’t eaten or drank anything non-alcoholic in almost as long, and it was probably only due to the tavern’s shamefully watered ale that he was still alive. Flashes of crying into the shapely bosoms of several different naked women – he shoved those aside to agonize over later. His favorite outfit was ruined, his lute was out of tune, and someone else had written the song of Geralt’s death and frankly the chord progressions were _uninspired_.

For just a moment grief threatened to overwhelm him once more – it wasn’t artistic pride, it really wasn’t, it’s just that Geralt deserved _better_ – but the shocking cold of the stream was unforgiving and left no space in his consciousness to be maudlin.

Fine, then. He could remember what had happened, and piece together how he’d spent the time since, even if he wasn’t entirely sure exactly how much time it had been. There was only one question remaining: _why was he in the middle of the fucking woods_?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't actually think Geralt was dead, did you? Come on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN for semi-graphic depiction of torture and its aftermath
> 
> I should point out that I've read very little of the books and the bulk of my knowledge comes from the tv show. My knowledge of everything from geography to how magic works is best described as "pulling random guesses out of my ass." If I fuck something up please don't tell me; just assume I did it on purpose. It was an artistic choice, dammit, a deliberate divergence from canon. Definitely not just me being ignorant.

_On a different part of the continent…_

When he woke up that morning, although he had no way of knowing it, Geralt of Rivia had two things in common with his bard. One, he had no idea how much time had passed or what day it was. And two, everything hurt.

Another blow slammed into his face, hitting the same spot as the one that had woken him, and he let himself sway with it to lessen the impact. Jailer Number 3, then. He always favored the backhand, and there was never any real hatred behind it. It was just… perfunctory. As if striking the prisoners to wake them up in the morning was as much a part of his routine chores as feeding the horses was part of a stableboy’s.

A bowl was held to his face then, close enough that he could lower his head and slurp up the watery gruel even with his hands bound and unable to reach. That, and the jaunty tune whistled painfully off-key, confirmed that it was indeed Jailer Number 3 – Number 2 took a childish delight in waiting until he’d started to eat and then shoving the bowl into his face, and Number 1 could carry a tune.

“Yer gettin’ a treat today,” his captor said as he ate, his tone cheerful and conversational. “They say Her Sorceress-ship herself is comin’ to see you.” When the gruel was gone – too soon, far too soon, even as bland and tasteless as it was, even as Geralt was tempted to simply stop eating it and make them waste their energy forcing him – the bowl was taken away and he could hear movement around him. “They say she’s beautiful,” the man went on, as if trading rumors with his mates at the pub. Geralt heard straw being pushed around and the comparison to a stableboy returned. Was the man mucking out his cell? If Nilfgaard wanted to make his accommodations more pleasant for Fringilla’s sake he certainly wouldn’t complain; his nose, at least, still worked just fine. “Skin as soft and dark as the forest at night, and eyes like the moon on the sea. Not that you’ll see her, of course,” he added jovially, “but might as well imagine something pleasant, eh, boy?”

Softer sounds then, and sweeter smells: fresh hay being laid down. Number 3 finished and made to leave, smacking the back of Geralt’s head on his way out – hard enough to rattle his teeth, but not to rattle his brains. Practically a love-tap. At the door, the man paused. “You’ll do as you will, White-Hair, but if you want some advice: be thinkin’ on what you’re gonna tell her. It’s all been fun and games so far, and I won’t say you haven’t impressed the boys, but they say it’s different with her. Whatever’s in your head, she _will_ get out of it, and I hear tell it hurts like a mother when she does. Not that it makes no nevermind to me, but. Thought you’d like to know it’s all over now one way or another. Might as well spare yourself the worst, boy.”

On that cheerful note, the iron gate clanged shut and the jailer moved away, whistling that damned song as he went. The one their bards had written and spread, the one that meant that no one – not Yen, not Vesemir, _no one_ – would ever come looking for him.

His face itched. It wasn’t the worst of it, was far from the worst of it, but right here and now it _felt_ like the worst of it. Blood and other fluids from where his eyes had been had dripped onto his cheeks and dried there, and small insects kept landing on it, and it _itched_ and he couldn’t scratch it.

He knew better than to try anyway. It wouldn’t accomplish anything, and it _would_ shake feeling back into his arms. They’d been numb for at least two guard rotations, and honestly that was as close to a blessing as he was likely to get in this place. Both his shoulders were dislocated by now – the first had popped out almost the first night they’d had him suspended like this, arms chained to the ceiling, feet to the floor, raised just high enough and off-center enough that he fell forward onto knees that didn’t touch the ground, and the second had held out nearly a week longer. The sharp shooting pains were gone now, leaving only a dull ache and a pervasive sensation of _wrongness_ in their wake. The numbness in his limbs would have scared him if he thought for a moment he might actually leave here alive, but he didn’t, so it didn’t really matter.

A sorceress. After everything he’d done, everything he’d endured to keep Ciri safe, now this. Rationally, he knew Yennefer was smart. She would have hedged her bets. Even if she believed Geralt was dead, if there was even the slightest whisper of a chance that he could betray them she would have acted on that possibility. She wouldn’t have stopped moving, not in any safe place he could name. Portal after portal, she would have taken the princess so far away that the army could never hope to follow. Taken her to some place where they’d never even heard of Nilfgaard. Yen was old, older than him; she’d have hiding spots history had forgotten, and she’d take Ciri there and they’d never be heard from again until the Lion Cub was ready to come into her own. Logically, rationally, Geralt knew this. He could have told them everything he knew, betrayed every secret he’d ever kept and bought himself a clean death, and it wouldn’t matter because Yen would keep Ciri safe in ways that didn’t depend on him. He _knew_ this.

Well. No one had ever accused him of being rational.

He imagined the sorceress digging idly through his mind, pulling out his most secret and sacred memories to examine with idle curiosity, and he wondered how much it would hurt.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier spends some time thinking about what he's doing and where he's going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are short chapters, I know, but that at least ensures I keep posting them!
> 
> It dawns on me that I may have made some miscalculations when it comes to distance and time, and now I get to figure out how to get these two in the same place in time for some actual plot to happen; all this is to say, I'm probably going to be fudging some things in upcoming chapters, and I'm not sorry.

He stayed in the water, not only until his head was clear, but until he was reasonably sure it would stay that way once he climbed out. By that point his extremities were turning a rather unlovely shade of blue; he reflected that his recent behavior had probably not lent itself to good circulation.

Returning to where he’d woken up, he tried to make sense of what was there. His pack and lute; that was good. He’d brought his bedroll, though he noticed he hadn’t bothered to set it up. Daggers, but packed away in his gear rather than on him where they could do any good. No fire, although in retrospect that was probably for the best. And, he noticed, his stomach turning over queasily, a completely empty bottle of liquor.

So: he’d left the tavern and the town, obviously. He’d brought his things with him, so it was deliberate; he hadn’t just wandered off. He’d gone into the woods and… what? Drank until he couldn’t walk any further, then passed out where he was? Gods. From the sunburn on his face, he’d been lying there quite a while before he was sober enough to wake up, easy prey for monsters or bandits or anything else that wanted an easy victim. It must be true that the gods look after children and drunks, because certainly nobody else had been, least of all him.

Was that why, then? Sitting near his pack, massaging his aching temples, he had to admit it was disturbingly plausible. Had he just decided the pain was too much, and intentionally made himself a target so someone or something else would do him the favor of ending it? He shuddered; even now there was a sick attractiveness to the idea, and he hurriedly pushed the thought away.

But no, if that were his plan he wouldn’t have brought his things. You don’t _pack_ for suicide. No, there was something else, something he was looking for… it tugged at the back of his mind, the memory teasing him. The idea of a journey, almost a pilgrimage. He was looking for…

…He was looking for the place where Geralt died.

He shivered. That was it. He wanted to find where the battle had taken place. Find the exact place where his Witcher had bled out. He wasn’t even sure what he thought would be there – a grave? Would they have buried him, the Nilfgaardian soldiers, let alone marked the place? Or would he find the body, left out to rot and feed the crows, a white-haired bloated corpse in black armor? His imagination, always so vivid, helpfully supplied him with images here, and for a moment he desperately wished there were still liquor in the bottle.

But it had seemed right, somehow. To go there, to be there. To bear witness. He hadn’t been there when Geralt died (and that wasn’t his fault and he couldn’t have done anything even if he had been and yet he would never forgive himself for that regardless), but there was some part of him that had needed to be there now. It felt like it would mean something. Like it would make a difference, even if only to him, like maybe something would click inside him and the grief would just pour out of his soul and somehow, in some way, that would make things… something. Better? Easier? He shook his head, irritated. It wasn’t rational. One patch of bloodied ground wasn’t going to be much different than any other. He wouldn’t find Geralt’s spirit or a sense of peace or magical healing tears or any of it. He knew that, and yet… he still felt the draw.

And then what? After he’d found the place, assuming he even could… what next? Write the greatest tragic song of all time? Curl up on the ground and weep until he wasted away and died? Find Yennefer (his mind supplied all the reasons _that_ was a bad idea, all the reasons he didn’t like her and shouldn’t trust her, but without Geralt they felt hollow and faraway) and help keep Ciri safe? Go charging after Nilfgaard’s army intent on revenge and die in a grand, futile, romantic gesture? His past self, pickled with booze and addled by grief, _somehow_ had failed to think this thing through, and present-Jaskier was judging him for it.

Then again, what else was there to do? Clearly, “go about his business” wasn’t going to be an option any time soon, and while this sudden return to sobriety wasn’t exactly fun it did highlight that staying permanently drunk wasn’t a fantastic idea either. Jaskier reached for his lute and strummed the strings idly, then winced at the resulting sound. Maybe continuing on this journey wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, he thought, beginning to tune the lute. Even if he didn’t have any idea what he would do at the end of it. The travel itself might clear his head. And maybe, just maybe… silly as it was, it might actually bring him closure.

Assuming, of course, he could figure out how to get out of this forest.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Checking back with Geralt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: for more depictions/descriptions of torture
> 
> Apologies for the long wait.

_Elsewhere_

She _was_ beautiful. They all were, after all. But while Yennefer’s beauty was a wild, perilous thing just like her, the sorceress who tormented him had a prettiness that was deceptively soft and lovely. Gentle rounded features. Skin a soothing shade of deep brown. A generous mouth made for smiling, unsuited for the hard line it was currently set in. Even her eyes were large and liquid, lined with dark lashes, only the glint in their depths betraying the hardness hidden in them.

It was like being mauled to death by a child’s stuffed bear.

He would have laughed, if he were still capable of laughing. If his throat hadn’t been wrung dry by screams – and, yes, eventually, by sobs. She had broken him after all, and some distant detached part of his mind supposed he ought to be impressed by that. He hadn’t thought it was possible.

“I still don’t know where they are.” He didn’t speak with his voice. His voice was a ruined thing, his throat raw and bloodied inside and out, his mouth a mass of still-weeping burns. He didn’t speak with his voice anymore than he saw with his eyes, not after what they’d done to them. But he saw her and he spoke to her all the same.

“I know.” Her voice was in his head and in his ears all at once, cool as river water and pitiless. “Or at least I know that you don’t think you do.” The scenes in his mind continued to change. A cave he’d spent three nights in after being wounded in a basilisk hunt. An elderly noblewoman who’d welcomed him with a smile once, instead of a suspicious stare. A tavern he and Jaskier had returned to each time they were near that town. “If you knew, we could have been done with this already.”

They had taken Kaer Morhen from him first, assuming that the stronghold was where Yennefer would have taken Ciri first. Maybe it had been. But presumably they hadn’t stayed here, or the sorceress wouldn’t still be ravaging his memories.

The path to Kaer Morhen was impossible to find and navigate without a Witcher’s guidance. But then, Nilfgaard had a Witcher’s guidance – or, rather, a Witcher’s mind, which was close enough to the same thing. He had fought her. With everything in him, every mental reserve that had stayed strong despite the physical torture, he kept her away from those memories as long as he could, but it was a losing battle and he knew it from the start. Her power was overwhelming, inexorable, like the tree roots that conquer impenetrable stone and reduce fortresses to rubble. It was agony to resist her and worse agony when she broke through, ripping carelessly through his defenses and rending his mind with no thought to the damage done. He could feel it, the moment when secrets that had kept generations of Witchers safely hidden away for centuries were laid bare before her, and oh, that hurt worst of all.

He tried not to think of it, in the days to come. Of what battles had ensued, enabled by that stolen knowledge. Of the carnage that likely now littered those stone walls. Of who had lived, who had died, who had urged a tactical retreat and who had chosen a defiant last stand. It didn’t truly matter, after all; no one was going to tell him which, if any, of his imaginings were true. So he tried not to think of it.

He tried not to think at all.

It hurt to think, hurt to _will_. The pathways she’d clawed into his mind burned in her wake, the pain intense enough to dwarf even the physical effects of torture and deprivation.

And yet he’d tried again when she returned, tried helplessly to shield his memories from further ravaging.

She took more secrets, next. Things he’d learned in his many, many years of fighting monsters. Lore he’d been taught as a child. Things he’d overheard, things the common man wasn’t meant to know. Anything to find out how Ciri might have been hidden from them so thoroughly.

From then it was on to his private moments. Conversations, fleeting and long-forgotten, that might hold a clue. Everything he’d tried to teach Ciri. Every conversation with Yen, whether murmured across a pillow or shouted in spite. Hours upon hours of Jaskier – his voice, his rambling stories to fill the miles, his songs.

Every time, he tried to protect them. Every time she broke through anyway, like a fisherman ripping apart an oyster for the pearl hidden inside.

If there was any comfort at all during those days, it was while she reviewed these memories. He let the sounds of their voices wash over him; it was bittersweet, and tainted with fear of what she might use this knowledge to do to them, and overlaid with guilt and grief (for he’d failed each of them, hadn’t he, in his own way, treated them poorly and caused them pain) – and yet the sound of their voices was the only good thing in this place.

Her focus now was on safe havens – anywhere he had let his guard down, let himself relax. Any place that he might have considered safe enough, that his companions might have considered safe enough, to hide Ciri away.

She had spent a long time, far too long, studying his memories of Jaskier. He saw the memories through her eyes, reliving them with new perspective. That was its own form of pain. Seen like this, through this haze of hell, it was harder to pretend his steadfastness and loyalty had just been stubbornness. Harder to ignore how Geralt had used gruffness and irritation to cover up worry and fondness, how he’d let himself relax when the bard was around. Harder, too, to see his treatment of Jaskier as anything but shabby. It would be the final flourish on the entire shitshow of their relationship, if the last thing he ever did for the bard was set the soldiers of Nilfgaard on him.

And then, one day (day? Week? How long had she been here, in his mind like this? His perception of time was gone entirely; it might have been a matter of days or of months, and it bothered him that he didn’t know), she simply stopped. He didn’t know why – if she had realized he hadn’t even seen Jaskier since finding Ciri and that therefore he couldn’t know anything, or if she’d had spies investigate and determined he wasn’t a threat, or if she simply didn’t think a random bard with no magic or prowess to speak of was worth wasting more time on.

Whatever the reason, Geralt found he was glad. Jaskier had deserved better than him. If Nilfgaard had come for him, if he’d had reason to think Geralt were still alive, the ridiculous, loyal man would have come looking for him, and nevermind how badly Geralt’s last words to him must have hurt. Left alone, he would hear of the White Wolf’s “death,” grieve, and then move on with his life. Find happiness and peace somewhere else, with someone else.

He knew it was only a matter of time, after all. They’d find something, some clue, or even just some random stroke of luck. Something to lead them to Yen and to Ciri. He was going to fail to protect them. Had already failed, really, just by virtue of being here, captured, with a sorceress rummaging through his mind. He’d failed them.

But Jaskier was safe. Jaskier was somewhere far away from Witchers and war and magic, and even as a new onslaught ripped a silent scream from a throat no longer capable of it, Geralt felt a rush of relief at the thought.


End file.
